


Between Heaven and Earth

by fajrdrako



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Gen, Mutiny & Retribution, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 18:17:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17833688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fajrdrako/pseuds/fajrdrako
Summary: It had been so long that Horatio had virtually forgotten what it felt like: the paralysis of mind and body, the sense of nightmare horror, the cessation of time, his mind in chaos. He was in the rigging far above the upper deck, and the sense of fear had come upon him.





	Between Heaven and Earth

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to Gail for beta-reading and to my friend who helped me with background information.
> 
> Originally written circa 2004-2005.

It had been years since this had happened. 

It had been so long that Horatio had virtually forgotten what it felt like: the paralysis of mind and body, the sense of nightmare horror, the cessation of time, his mind in chaos. He was in the rigging far above the upper deck, and the sense of fear had come upon him. 

He was frozen, helpless by the main topsail. He could not look down. The horizon, far away, mocked him. The brilliant blue sky above was cold and distant. His fingers locked and he knew that unless he relaxed the muscles, they would cramp. Then he would lose his grip and fall. 

He would fall. 

He remembered Davy Williams, landing heavily on the deck, never to rise. 

It was years since he had panicked at a height. It had been bad enough when he had been a green lad of seventeen, weeping in the grips of a terror beside which, for the moment, Simpson's scorn had meant nothing. It had been easy to put that behind him in recent years, chalk it up to the list of learning experiences of a young midshipman, and believe that it would never happen again. Though he would never be comfortable with heights, he had learned to deal with them. Until this moment, he had known he would not fall. 

He could not look down. He could not move, but here he was, exposed to every eye that cared to glance, caught like a fly in amber, motionless in the upper ropes. There were none to help him: the crew a drunken rabble, the officers in disarray, the Captain erratic to the point of madness. 

He must not let Sawyer know of this, or the crewmen. They would cut him down at any sign of weakness. The ridicule would never end. Who would obey a command from a man who was afraid of the air? 

He must move, but he could not. 

The familiar swaying of the ship now felt like the gyrations of a wild animal which was trying to shake him off. The ratlines hurt his hands; he could not feel the ones under his feet. He closed his eyes, and the vertigo overcame him. He opened them hastily - bad to look down! He still couldn't move, but the dizziness was less when his eyes were open. It was part of the terrible movement of the Renown, the orbit of the masts, the effect of the wind that was trying to blow him into the air or into the sea. Dear God, how long must this rigor last? 

He imagined himself falling, landing dead among the drunken sailors below. Would they laugh, kick his body? Matthews would do his best to keep them off, but the Captain would glare at him in contempt as the lieutenant who could not climb. "Toss it overboard," he would say. "Be quick about it." Matthews, Styles, Archie would be unable to object. They would say a few words for his sake, later, making it quick, because they knew that if they were caught privately together they would be accused of conspiracy to mutiny - and in any case they would have to live under the stigma of being Hornblower's men. 

He tried to ease the strain on his hands, but the muscles did not respond. If he loosened his grip just an iota, he would die. How long had he been hanging here, stuck in the rigging? Seconds? Minutes? 

He needed to keep face, to handle these men - good souls kept useless by drink, most of them; a few vicious scoundrels, like Randall, out for blood. They would never respect an officer who panicked in the rigging they could navigate so easily. 

Captain Sawyer respected no one, but this would give him an exceptionally fine target for his satire. Horatio could not let them see him in this state, but dear God, he was exposed to all, with nowhere to hide. 

After all these years, he had thought it would never happen to him again. He remembered Archie in the Spanish prison, having a fit, his body jerking in hideous spasms - "I had not been troubled by them until you came," he had said. Everything always returned. It was not possible to vanquish the demons, only to hold them at bay, and then only for a while. 

He thought his hand was slipping, but it was only the movement of the lines under his senseless hands. He tried to cling more tightly, but had no command of his muscles at all. Soon he would be falling. He put his head against the substance of the shrouds. He could not pray, could not weep, could do nothing at all. The sails in the wind sounded like thunder, the roll of a huge drum. 

The rigging moved again, and this time it was not from the wind or the motion of the ship. Hands closed firmly on either side of him. He was wrapped in someone's arms, hands beside his hands, feet beside his feet, and if he fell now, he would be held safe. 

Safe. He almost sobbed aloud. 

A calm voice, low in his ear, said, "It's all right, Horatio. I have you. You can let go now." 

But he couldn't. He knew that, even as he realized that the voice was that of Second Lieutenant Bush, a man he had only recently met and still dared not trust. What was he doing here? He whispered, "How?" 

"How did I know? I saw you stop. Don't worry, no one else has seen." There was warm humour in the lieutenant's voice, comforting Horatio as his fingers moved lightly over Horatio's right hand, pulling on the fingers, urging them one by one, to loosen their grip. "It's all right. You can open your fingers. See?" 

Miraculously, he could do it now. His hand was free of the line, the fingers splayed, mottled white and pink - but he was not falling, and he was not going to fall, held safely between flexible rigging and Bush's warm, strong body. 

He held the line with a more normal grip, and shifted his other hand. He still did not fall to his death. 

"Merciful heaven," he gasped, his breath expelled as if he had been holding it for far too long. His body was his own again, the  
paralysis gone; it was a fine day, and no one was going to die on the quarterdeck after a sickening drop. 

Bush said, in his ear, "You may be assured I will say nothing of this. If anyone notices us, I'll say you had trouble with a splice." His cheek brushed Horatio's. 

Horatio turned to see Bush's face. Their heads were close, the wind moving Bush's dark curls, his face expressionless. Horatio stared searchingly into the shadowed eyes. Was this a man he could trust? Yes - that, and more. 

"Thank you," he said. He meant it not only for the rescue Bush had just affected, but also for being a friend in a shipload of men who were otherwise. 

"It's nothing." He moved aside, his hand a steadying comfort on Horatio's back. "We can go down now?" 

"Easily," said Horatio, descending with as much assurance as ever. He noticed that Bush, without making it obvious, stayed near him step by step. It was not necessary, but it was appreciated. 

On the quarterdeck, there was an awkward silence. Horatio had already spoken his thanks. To do as he wished, to embrace Bush in gratitude, was not possible. He said, "I am greatly in your debt, Mr. Bush." 

Bush said, "I hope you may depend on me in all things." 

The words filled Horatio with warmth. If Bush supported him - if Bush could be his friend - they might survive Sawyer's madness and anything he could take them through. He would be alone no longer, and the knowledge was solace to his heart.


End file.
